


get lonely

by Abirdsnest27



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Snippet, sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 22:48:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10397907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abirdsnest27/pseuds/Abirdsnest27
Summary: Sitting up, Eric turns, not knowing what he’ll see, probably still foolish from sleep, thinking that maybe he would be there, sleeping, back to Eric, his dark brown curls stark against the white pillowcase. But there’s nothing, rather, no one there.It’s just Eric





	

The first thing he notices is how cold it is. The light behind his eyes is white. The room smells unfamiliar. It takes him a while to place it: orange and vanilla. Eventually he opens his eyes and he remembers, understands truly, what it feels like to wake up and have everything feel like a dream. 

It’s colder here. The air a bit less muggy. For a moment he wonders if shaking his head will make this room disappear and take him back to a particular room in Carolina, a room still not his own but it might as well have been. To a bed with another body lying in it, probably still asleep. Sitting up, Eric turns, not knowing what he’ll see, probably still foolish from sleep, thinking that maybe he would be there, sleeping, back to Eric, his dark brown curls stark against the white pillowcase. But there’s nothing, rather, no one there. 

It’s just Eric. 

 

The floor is cold as he swings his legs over the side to explore his room. It's one he's familiar with, one Marc affectionately refers to as his “foster room” whenever one of them comes to visit. Eric is glad Marc found Lindsey. She definitely has a better eye for interior than Marc. Eric opens the curtains to bring some light into the room. A cream interior accented with royal blue. So Marc did have some say.  
There’s a welcoming basket on the dresser. Someone handed it to him shortly after arriving at HQ. He doesn't really remember who, everything was kind of a blur from 11am onwards. Thankfully there’s a bag of coffee grounds in the basket.

Eric digs through his possessions for his phone. He can't remember if he managed to charge it last night or if he just threw it in the corner with the rest of the things he scrambled to pack. He hasn't touched it since last night after calling-- that’s right. He turns, seeing it laying on the dresser where he left it last night. Battery near drained.  
Scanning his notifications, seeing messages from everyone and their mother, even his mother (a few missed calls he can get back to those later). Deciding the messages from Marc are the most pertinent, he attends to those first. 

It’s just a stream of texts sent one after the other.

“Sorry about the trade but at least we get to play together now!”

“We’ll kick Jordy’s ass”

“I’m usually downstairs early. We can eat then head to the rink together”

“What do you feel like for lunch? There’s this sushi place nearby we can go to”

Eric smiles, as he reads his younger brother’s messages. It was always Eric and Jordy who went together, up against Marc and Jared. Eric would enjoy getting to relearn his brother after all these years. The last time they lived under one roof was probably the when Eric lived at home which was just a lifetime ago it seems. In Eric’s mind he’s been wearing red for as long as he can remember. He thought it would be the color he’d retire in. But. Things change.

 

Marc is downstairs and dressed by the time Eric comes down, standing by Lindsey as she makes breakfast. He can't actually do anything but being there makes him feel helpful. Eric asks if he can help out and the general consensus is no Staal should be anywhere near an open fire. 

The brothers retreat after eating and methodically they get ready for practice. Like clockwork, showered, his gear bag over his shoulder, Eric meets Marc at the door. And he looks. So happy to see Eric.  
Eric has this flash of when they were younger, all four of them racing to the backyard, to the rink their dad made, skates half on, their mother chasing after them with scarves and gloves, Marc with his red hair and even redder face, just so eager to play some hockey with his brothers.  
The nostalgia sparks something in his chest but it's immediately chased by a jolt of coldness. And Eric hates that everything, at least for a while, will just be tinged with a reminder of what he’s lost. Marc, seeming to sense his dismay, almost lifts him off his feet in a hug before Eric slaps at his back to drop him. 

 

It’s a bright sunny day in New York, not yet spring but almost. The drive to the practice rink is nice. It’s one Eric has made many times before. And practice is. Certainly different. He's not used to going to the home locker room instead of the visitors, and Eric hasn’t been the new guy in the locker room in forever. He sits there awkwardly putting on his gear as Marc introduces him to everyone, getting up to shake a hand every so often. He answers some basic questions from the guys, where he likes to be on the ice, what it was like growing up with Marc, the occasional embarrassing anecdote, and then AV walks into the room and it’s time to hit the ice. 

Eric stares down at his boots as he follows Marc to the rink. He doesn’t think about how his stomach churns, how he feels the urge to run. Or scream. He just focuses on his breathing and the sound of his skates slicing through the ice. 

And before he knows it practice is over. Undoing his laces, Marc, in the stall beside him, bumps his shoulder. “You okay big E? How’s your first day so far?” Marc and Jared got along for a reason. They both took after their dad with regard to their looks, but inside they were 100% their mother, straightforward and caring to the point of softness. Eric and Jordy took after their dad more; easygoing and hardworking, but not so much with the being good at the articulation of feelings. Marc could always let Eric know how he was feeling without even saying it. And right now he was trying his damn hardest to cheer Eric up.  
Eric gave him a smile that, to be honest, didn’t quite reach his eyes, but for all Marc knows that could be the full round of hockey practice they just had. Or that’s what Eric would tell himself. 

 

Marc decided taking the train would be a fun idea, really get Eric into the spirit of the island. He’d already seen the sights, done the whole tourist thing, but as Marc said there’s always something new to see in New York City, so they walk around for a bit on their way to some sushi.  
And Eric’s doing fine. Talking to his brother is calming him down. He’s not thinking about if he’ll have to move, what the next few months will look like personally, never mind professionally. A new house, playoffs, a new contract somewhere? Would anyone even want him after the season he’s had?  
Nope. All of that banished to the back of his mind. Right now it was just him and Marc until Eric’s turning to face Marc because it’s impolite not to look at people when they’re talking to you even if they are walking down a crowded Manhattan street and Eric sees at just the right height a perfectly round head of slightly tousled brown curls emerging from a touque and his feet freeze. Marc bumps into his shoulder and then the person turns and the illusion is gone, the nose isn’t his, there are no eye crinkles, and his cheek is in need of a dimple.  
“What’s wrong?” Marc asks, much too serious to not keep Eric’s worrying about Marc’s worrying about him at bay.  
He tells him it’s nothing, and while a little shaken, he is telling the truth, in that it, that person, was nothing. 

 

Eric, through some miracle, manages to go the rest of the day without having another panic attack. He supposes it was all saved up for when he settles in for the night. He looks out the window at the sparse not quite yet spring trees, the blue tone of everything reminding him of a memory that seemed set in another life. He has to remind himself that that was last night. One second later and it’s not the trees he sees, but a watery reflection of just himself. The irony is not lost on him. 

He turns to the empty room behind him, taking stock of all he has presently. And how severely lacking it is. He thinks maybe if he closes his eyes he can remember better, relive a couple things. But remembering isn’t actually recalling. He read somewhere that whenever you remember what your brain actually does is reconstruct the memory each and every time.  
Eric thought maybe there was someway he could construct an image of him being here in this room, not a million miles away, just as alone as he is. In that house, with all their stuff. Eric thinks he might have left his razor on the sink. He could always buy a new one. But there, seated on the edge of the bed, his tea cooling on the bedside table, Eric could see it, he could see him. 

 

“Jeff”

 

His cellphone rings.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of extra part, it ties into the storyline of When We Were Young.
> 
> This is really just a snippet, the first day after the trade, the first of two parts, and apparently I have a thing for setting fic to songs so. 
> 
> This is Eric waking up at Marc's place in New York on Feb 29. I don't actually know if he went there immediately but he did stay with Marc during his time with the Rangers. 
> 
> Anyway don't listen to The Mountain Goats bad things happen when you listen to The Mountain Goats.
> 
> Notice how the only thing Eric says is "Jeff" anyway I'll be in my hole filled with regret. 
> 
> Also sorry this is unbetaed I didn't wanna bother su mei


End file.
